Respect, man.

I don't miss hot water anymore. I'm sure I will, once I remember what I'm missing.

I thought I would.

For a long time.

But I think it's like the ocean, like the beach.

You pass over that final stretch of bridge, the air smells like salt and sand and the sun turns the little hairs on the back of your hand white.

And then you're there. The dunes burn your toes and the reeds whistle.

Ahh, you missed this place.

I don't remember what it's like to go out and expect to stay clean.

I splatter the back of my calves with mud, and I sweat and stumble from the moment I think about leaving the house.

I don't remember why I have more than one of the same thing. Why I'd buy a deodorant when there's one on my dresser. Why I'd walk outside and ruin my socks, thinking I'll just get new ones.

But I remember small pleasures. I don't doubt I'll always want them. And I'm not convinced they're a bad thing.

Pedicures and walks with my dog.

Special dresses for special occasions.

Intentional. Purposeful. Use. Of the blessings I have been provided with.

I don't want to be a lazy haver anymore.

If I'm going to have, anyway.

If I'm not going to walk away from all my earthly possessions,

I want to know it. I want to deal with it. Every day, all the time.

Consciousness.

You are blessed.

And I'll remember this place.

The handshakes and the earned nods of appreciation.

Affirmation.

You are here, with us,

And finally,

That's ok.